"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 156 - Seh-Pa-Poo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

waxed and polished. He held the flashlight, a long five-cell black one, with both hands and fanned the
beam slowly and with seeming difficulty, as if he were a fireman playing water from a hose nozzle.

Doc Savage, trailing the light with his eyes, saw that the cliff dwelling ruin was unusual. He knew a little
about such stuff. Evidently this was a temple to the dark god, Cocopelli, because it did not have the
conventional D-shape and south-facing layout of sun temples. He noticed two facts which didn't go
together. The ruin was very old, at least a thousand years pre-Christ. He thought it older, probably. Yet it
was excellently made and of higher order, apparently, than some of the well-known ruins at Mesa Verde
of much later date, as late as the twelfth century, A. D.

He remarked, тАЬPeterson has got something here!тАЭ He was impressed. His curiosity was aroused. The
source of the Cliff Dwellers, from whence they came, was something of an archaeological puzzle. A very
early ruin, such as this, would be extremely valuable.

The Indian moved to an opening into another room. He poked his flashlight beam through the aperture,
and looked in. He said, тАЬEee-e-e-e-e-!тАЭ He said it softly, deep in his chest, the way a pigeon coos.

The next sound he made was louder, and definitely a scream. Horror changed it completely. Gone was
the Indian's stoicism. Gone into wild fright. He wheeled.

тАЬRun!тАЭ he urged.

His feet did some slipping in the dust, then he was going for the door.

Doc Savage reached out, got the Indians arm. The Indian made an inarticulate noise, a mewing, and
struck at Doc with his left hand, which did not hold the flashlight, using the flashlight hand to press against
Doc's chest as if setting him up for the punch. Doc leaned his jaw back out of the way. He put both
hands over the Indian's hand and flashlight on his chest, twisted, and got the flashlight. The Indian fell to
his hands and knees in the dust of centuries which covered the floor.

Doc took the flashlight to the opening which the Indian had looked through. The flashlight, focused for a
narrow beam, was like a long, weightless, white-hot rod in the stygian interior of the place.

He half leaned through the hole, and presently was looking at the strangely dead body of Carl Peterson.
Weirdly dead. There was absolutely nothing right about the way the body was dead. . . . Death was the
only normal thing about it.

He got only a short look at Carl Peterson. Hearing a scraping sound behind him, he wheeled.

The Indian was leaving.
тАЬHere, you!тАЭ he said sharply. тАЬHold on! Come back here!тАЭ



HE pursued the Indian, outside and down the cliff path. The Indian had no light, but he seemed to know
the path, and was able to keep his lead. He piled into the station wagon, and the starter ground fiercely,
angrily, urgently, trying to start the hot motor.

тАЬYou come!тАЭ The Indian had his head out of the window. тАЬYou come!тАЭ he howled. тАЬWe get the hell outa
here!тАЭ Then he seemed to realize Doc was close, and said, тАЬOh! Get in! Hurry!тАЭ